When they sent us on our way,
They told us the path would always be clear -
Blinded by faith, we listened.
No doubt in mind, we kept on.

Now knee deep in the ghostly twilight,
The stars and the sky have all lost their hue
And the trail has ended.
A howl rises in the night -
*"What has become of this?"

He feels natural,
Not supernatural.
Thankful for the external-
That there is no eternal-
Being who is unilaterally supreme.

He doesn't need prayer:
Just truth covered by layer-
After layer of untruth.

He needs more of the now,
the present and the how.

He needs, U.

??.02.12

I still lift my voice in song
To a God I no longer believe in
Not for my sake,
but for yours.
I am afraid of your heart breaking in two
When you find out that mine no longer yearns for Jesus.

When I was young once my pastor taught
The tale Genesis, how God with care
Unto hard clay breathed conscious thought.
As the wind would blow I’d say a prayer
And feel His breath, the hot gust of air
The trees that swayed were His great chest
The leaves that fell were kissed and blessed.
I spread my arms towards the sky
And knew He could make me fly.
I closed my eyes, and on tip-toe
Soared high to heavens, earth below.
Far above the pale green pastures
And winding roads, filled with rapture
I saw where the path would end,
What the course of life would lend.
Unchained and free, I knew at last
What shores we'd reach, when we are passed.
Our clumsy bodies tie us down,
But souls are free, and never bound.
And as the day faded to night
I had to end my sacred flight
Fall back to earth, where reason rules
Where those who soar
Are simple fools.

The road was hard.
Your eyes looked far
to see time roll on
forever.

An arrow’s heart
that never starts,
but always point on
until forever.
Punctured veins
dripping stains
of holy affirmation.

And to the god
you thought was there
hoped he stood with you
dreamed he cared
instead you found
he was never real.

You raged and cried against the night
to steal back some forgotten light,
but left this life
a bloated broken ****** fleshy blister.

I've figured it out: I'm dead.
And, wow, there is a God!
One just as horrible as they said.

I found religion at the bottom of a cereal box
and ended up saving it in my pocket for awhile, spending my sundays
beside spiritual cannibals speaking of the Supergalactic
and eating on the good word while waiting for the Hand of god
or so-called Miracles; only recently have I discovered
the sacrosanctity of the seed, the egg, the space between matryoshka dolls,
the amoeba before it splits or the amoeba afterwards, baby teeth
and graduates, letters stuffed in pen tips in hands of poets
kneeling with the armless, contrapposto women waiting
inside blocks of marble and boiling pots of Hellenic brass worshiping
in the house of the hesitant spring crawling from the earth’s core
on stolen time;

I say a heretic’s “Amen” to the parting of lips,
the movement of breath, all werewolves on the half-moon and
the moon before the harvest, bless the ant hills full of false gods
that band together in the symphony of the subatomic and glory be
to the Truth! the only truth, that just as all things die in the end, so too
are all things born at the beginning, a fact lost on all those preaching
sacred scriptures in the dead language
of the Impossibly Huge.